Purpose

As I journeyed inward,
The dripping followed.

Droplets flowed.
Frequent, incessant
Followers of gravity,
Wishing to be joined as kin,
But never to link in their fluid descent.
That solitary sound still haunts me.

Drip, drip, drip.
The cavernous insinuation
Breaks apart reality,
Leading only to the sustained
Feeling of hopelessness
As I fall too into pools of despair.

And yet, unlike myself,
The drops can trace their origins,
Whilst man withers and ponders
His own from the darkness
Of Plato’s cave,
Never to be escaped.

Into my own consciousness
I wind, upheld and yet faltering
In the passion of the psyche.
Yet only false Herculean strength
And Oedipal disaster await me
In the final stretches of consciousness.

I fear and envy the droplets.
They have gained a purpose
It seems in their descent;
One that I only dream of mirroring.
I crave wholly for purpose,
Yet expect none.

Yet still I journey inward
And still the dripping follows.